It’s 1 a.m. in September.
Three witches walk towards me
down Artesia Boulevard
armed with eyebrows like
my father’s temper.
I fear witches more than heights,
clowns, and spiteful waiters.
And they’re a month early.
I’ll tell them it was an accident;
I simply forgot to wash the dishes.
And I pulled out all the whiskers of
the black cat in the alley
because he bragged of his many lives.
My father had one.
Death and poetry
are related in life.
Bloodlines of realism so exaggerated,
it makes sense.
I decide to cut across the street,
pushing too real reveries
to the side,
like horrid vegetables.
(Originally published here- Gloom Cupboard)